


Breathe

by featherxquill



Series: Cornelia and her American [2]
Category: The Infinite Bad (Podcast)
Genre: 1920s, Banter, Cunnilingus, Don't Have to Know Canon, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Laughter During Sex, Older Characters, One Night Stands, Prohibition, older people have sex too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 16:55:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15800733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherxquill/pseuds/featherxquill
Summary: 'I’m not going to propose to you, or follow you to England, but I’d sure like to spend tonight makin’ love to you.'Upstairs at the Webster Hotel. The lady will never tell, but the gentleman might let you come along for the ride.





	Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a companion piece to 'Further Investigations of the Tantra', but can definitely be read as a standalone, if you're just here to enjoy some older people getting some. It covers Cornelia's final night at the Webster, which she alluded to in her log but refused to narrate. I could not make her tell it, but I wanted to imagine how it might have happened, so here it is from Leo's perspective. I hope you enjoy his voice, and his view of Cornelia. 
> 
> Many thanks to Arwen for the beta. Any mistakes about or flippancy around Tantra - which is definitely more than a way for some white people in the 1920s to have a fun evening - are my own, or are a deliberate choice based on the characters' contexts.

...

As they ride the elevator up to his room, they don’t speak. Cornelia glances at him once and then away coyly, and though Leo is quite happy to take her lead and play this game, he cannot help but slyly observe her. She wears a small, secretive smile and has a bloom of color in her cheeks, and he takes quite a bit of pleasure from being the cause of them.

He wonders if she has ever done anything like this before, then chastises himself for being presumptuous. Although he would certainly like to know her better, and he thinks he has read the situation correctly, he _has_ only invited her up for a drink. There are certainly still waters to test.

The elevator dings open at the fourth floor, and Leo holds the door open for Cornelia to exit. As he steps out behind her, he lifts his hand to touch her back, guiding her left towards his room. She hesitates for half a step, just enough time for his chest to brush up against her, then steps forward, glancing back at him with a smile.

“Where are we going?” she asks, all innocence, and he feels a spark of heat shoot through him.

“406,” he replies, his voice a warm murmur.

It’s not far up the hallway. When they reach the door, he finds she is slightly in front of him again, so he has to reach around her to unlock it. He does, leaning in close enough that he can see the loose strands of hair at the back of her neck stir under his breath.

“After you,” he whispers, very close to her ear, as he pushes the door open. He hopes she can hear the smile on his face.

His room is a small suite, facing the park. By day, it's airy, with a lovely view down to the water, but now, with the curtains drawn and the corners lit with warm lamplight, the space feels cozy. They are standing in a sitting area with a writing desk, coffee table, couch, and armchair, which leads off, via folding doors, to the bedroom beyond.

Cornelia gives an appreciative murmur. “I’m impressed, Leo. Your room is rather more grand than mine.”

Leo crosses the room, opens the desk drawer, and takes out a bottle of whiskey. “Well,” he says, turning over the two tumblers supplied ostensibly for water, “I do like to be comfortable when I travel, and being able to write it off as a company expense doesn’t hurt.” He pours a generous serve of the liquor into each glass. “And I do occasionally have to invite business associates up for private meetings - signing contracts and the like. At least,” he says, carrying the glass over to her, “that’s what I’ll tell the tax man, if he ever asks.” Cornelia smiles, and he presses the glass into her hand. “But none of that tonight. Cheers.” He taps his glass against hers. “Will you sit down?”

They settle onto the couch. Turning toward her, Leo stretches his arm out across the top of the cushions, letting the tips of his fingers rest against her shoulder. She smiles at him, sips her drink, and sighs with pleasure. “Ah, it’s been too long.”

“Fond of a drink, are you?” Leo asks, playful. He takes a sip of his own, expecting her to deny it, perhaps bat at his hand dismissively.

But Cornelia looks him dead in the eyes and says “Yes, very,” in that prim English voice of hers, and he has to cough out a laugh from a throat still warm from the drink. When he recovers, she is watching him with her piercing grey eyes, eyebrows slightly raised in what he hopes is mock offence. She takes another perfectly deadpan sip from her glass that sets him off again, and by the time his second bout of laughter abates he knows he has some explaining to do.

“Ah,” he sighs, falling against the couch cushions, “forgive me, Cornelia. You are unlike any woman I have ever met.” He means it. From the moment he saw her practicing her yoga in the park, he was fascinated, and throughout the day she has shown herself to be a curious blend of perfect lady and eccentric firebrand. She has entertained him with stories, made him laugh, and kept him on his toes all day. He couldn’t have delighted in it more.

“I hope,” she says, and he notices that one eyebrow is still raised, though the other has lowered to rest, “that that is a good thing?”

Leo smiles. “It is.” His fingers brush her shoulder. “It’s a very good thing. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed getting to know you.”

“Good,” she says, “because I’ve had a wonderful time with you.” She looks at him, then, and it’s a different look than she’s given him before, full of warmth and invitation. He looks back at her, and a beat of charged silence passes between them. He can see her chest rising and falling in what he hopes is anticipation.

He leans in. “Cornelia, may I kiss you?”

Her voice is little more than breath: “You may.”

He does: curls his fingers around her shoulder and pulls her close, then discards his glass onto the table, bringing his other hand up to lift her chin as he lowers his mouth to hers.

He can feel her sigh against his lips as they part. It sounds content, but he looks up at her anyway, questioning.

“It’s been a very long time since I did that,” she whispers.

He smiles, trails a thumb along her jawline. “Would you like to do it again?”

“ _Yes_.”

This time, he gets to taste her. He takes his time, as he always does where matters of intimacy are concerned, sliding his fingers into her hair and bending her head back just a little further, feeling and listening. They only have tonight, after all, and if this is all he gets from her he will be content, but he wants to enjoy every moment of it. He revels in the change in her: she is passive at first, relaxing into him but not giving much in return - he doesn’t think she is lying about the very long time - but as they continue, her confidence seems to grow. She presses herself closer to him, free hand reaching, sliding beneath his tuxedo jacket and fisting in his waistcoat. She cants her chin, hums into his mouth and nips at his bottom lip, and by the time they break apart they are both breathless.

They take a moment to recover. Her mouth is damp and her cheeks are rosy, and he wonders if he must look the same, because as she takes another sip from her glass she smiles around its rim, eyes sparkling.

“I think I remember how it’s done,” she says, smug.

Leo reaches for his own glass, welcomes the kick, and only realizes just how addled he is when it makes his head spin. “Yes,” he replies, panting slightly, “you certainly do.” He sees her shift in her seat, thighs clenching, and he smiles. There are no secrets in a silk gown.

“So,” she murmurs, drawing his eyes back up to her face, “tell me about the Tantra. What are these unconventional methods for achieving bliss that you mentioned at supper?”

Leo takes another sip of his drink, enjoys the moment. “Well,” he says, “it’s about a full sensory experience, two people enjoying intimacy and losing themselves in a physical connection. It’s the idea that the physical _can_ be spiritual. The belief is that to delay gratification as long as possible will bring you closer to nirvana, but personally, I just think it’s a lot of fun.”

Cornelia swirls the drink in her glass, arches that eyebrow again. “And how many ladies have you used _that_ line on?” she asks, smirking. It’s playful, and he wonders if she expects a denial, like he had earlier from her.

But he’s not going to lie to her. “A few,” he says, and can tell by her expression that she’s surprised by his candor. “I’m a bachelor, Cornelia, always have been. I take my pleasures where I find them. You’re returning to your daughter tomorrow, and I’ll be in Tallahassee in a week. I’m not going to propose to you, or follow you to England, but I’d sure like to spend tonight makin’ love to you.”

The roses on her cheeks are fairly glowing now. She looks down into her glass, then back up at him. “I’d like that too,” she says with a little smile. “I’ve never taken a lover before. Never been with a man other than my husband, and he died nearly forty years ago. I’d like it very much - to spend the night with you - as long as we can take our time. Promise me you’ll go slowly?”

Leo smiles and caresses Cornelia’s shoulder. “Taking it slow is what Tantra is all about. Here, let me show you.” He deposits his glass of whiskey on the table, then reaches for hers. “May I?” he asks, and takes the glass when she offers it. He sets it down beside his own, then reaches for her hand, stroking her wrist for a moment before curling his fingers around it and guiding her palm up to his chest. “Feel me breathe,” he says. “Breathe in time with me.” He deepens his own breath deliberately, slowly in and out, and after a few moments she begins to follow suit, matching him. He lets it go on for a while, stroking the back of her hand, feeling his energy mellow and fall into sync with hers. When he is confident that she feels the same, he breaks the silence with a whisper. “Now, anytime you need to slow down, you can say ‘breathe with me’, and I will. Okay?”

“Okay,” she whispers.

“Now, I’m going to kiss you again.”

He does, and there’s no hesitation in her response this time. She melts against him; he curls around her, and loses several minutes just on her mouth, enjoying the back and forth, pushing her and feeling her push back. He feels his blood heating, wants more, slides his fingers into her hair again and tugs her head back, mouthing down along her jawline to kiss her throat. The scent of her perfume fills his nostrils: respectable lily of the valley, but with a heady undertone of spice - a perfect representation of everything that makes her enticing. He breathes it in deeply, feels full of her, hums against her skin and feels an answering rumble vibrate from her throat.

When he pulls back to look at her, her eyes are dark with need, pupils dilated so much that her irises are barely visible. Her mouth is red from his kisses and the color in her cheeks has radiated all the way up to her temples; she looks like a wild thing barely contained. A countenance like that is just begging to be unraveled.

“Forty years, huh,” he muses, reaching around her to unfasten the clasps on her dress. There are three at the nape of her neck, trailing down between her shoulder blades, and he suspects that with those undone, the whole gown might slide right off. Not that he has any intention of rushing that. Instead, once they’re lose, he slides his fingers beneath her right shoulder strap and eases it down, trails his fingertips along her collarbone. “I’m honored.”

“Well,” she says, as he leans down to press a kiss against the right side of her throat, heading for the skin he’s just exposed, “for a long time after I was widowed, I didn’t want a beau, and by the time I was interested again, no one else seemed to be.” She gives a self-deprecating laugh, and he lifts his head.

“I can’t imagine why,” he says. “You’re clever and witty and attractive; any man would be lucky to know you.” He punctuates his words by sliding his hand onto her waist, stroking her side. It’s true. She is compelling, and while he doesn’t imagine she would have been considered a great beauty even in her youth, he certainly finds her attractive. Her fine bone structure gives her high cheekbones and a very long neck, lending her a proud carriage, and he has always had a weakness for haughty women. He can’t help but remember the sight of her stretching this morning, either, those long legs that he had appreciated for far too long before announcing himself. No, he will not find enjoying her body a challenge at all.

She smiles at him. “I don’t know. All I know is that one of your countrymen called me an _old bat_ a few days ago, which was very disheartening.” Her tone is light, though - a challenge - and he laughs.

“Well, if you’re an old bat, I’m an old dog. I promise you I know plenty of tricks, though. I’ll show you all of them, so you’ll remember me even when you’re back in your cave.” He grins, and she laughs, and with that he dives back in.

The skin at her shoulder is warm and pale and very soft. He mouths it gently, sucking at her collarbone, and as he works his way along it his hand caresses her side, sliding down to her hip and back up her flank, then around to her back, supporting her as he bends her back to give himself more access. Her fingers find their way into his hair as he kisses his way across her chest, nails scraping his scalp, and he groans against her skin.

But their angle is awkward; he knows there’s not much further she can maneuver while still in her dress, and he is feeling increasingly confined by his tuxedo jacket. He rights himself again. “Should we get more comfortable?”

Cornelia nods, and he takes her hand, helping her stand as he does. He shrugs his jacket off gratefully, and she attempts to divest herself of her dress, but it snags midway down her shoulders, and she looks at him. “I think you missed a hook.”

“Did I?” he asks, sliding behind her to drop his jacket over the back of the armchair, then turning his attention to her. “So I did.” He unhooks the fourth catch and the dress slithers down over her arms. When she steps out of it, he catches it, taking the time to fold it neatly and lay it on top of his jacket. He sheds his waistcoat as well, and by the time he turns back, she has removed her petticoat and stockings, and now stands with her back to him in nothing but a silky peach chemise that only covers her to mid-thigh. He’d known she wasn’t wearing a corset by the feel of her, but he is unprepared for the sight of her so undressed, all long limbs and skin. The elegant twist of her hair has become mussed from his attention, and now a long curl of it dangles loose down the back of her neck, right to her shoulder blade.

He cannot resist, steps up behind her and slides his hands around her waist, one hand curling around her abdomen and the other finding her thigh, dragging the slippery fabric across her skin. His mouth fixes on her earlobe, catching it gently between his teeth, and her hands come up to stroke the back of his head as he nuzzles her. He presses himself against her back, feels himself stirring, can’t help but pull her against him as his hands explore. She arches into him, pressing her backside into his crotch, and turns her face to his. As their mouths meet again his hands slide up to cup her breasts, small handfuls completely unsecured under her slip. His fingers find her nipples, catching them between a scissoring grip. She undulates against him; he groans, and then she smiles against his mouth.

“Breathe with me,” she whispers. “Just like this, breathe with me.”

Oh, she is _good_. He can feel her whole body expand and contract as she takes a deep belly breath, her breasts straining against his hands and her rump twitching. He feels the warm gust of her exhalation against his lips, and it takes every bit of his self-control to stay still and match her, filling his own chest in time with hers and sharing the air with her. In their stillness he feels every twitch of her, nerve endings crackling, and after that moment of difficulty he gives into it, opening his eyes to look into hers and feeling several different types of heat swirl between them.

Eventually, she seems ready to continue: curls her fingernails against his scalp and smiles again. “I do like that,” she whispers.

“Expertly timed,” he replies, kissing the side of her smile. His hands slide down over her abdomen again, then loosen. He’d love to keep holding her, but he finds, particularly after that dedicated session of making sure his blood was properly oxygenated, that he needs to make some slight adjustment. He pops one of his fly buttons while he’s still behind her, and sighs in relief.

Then he slips past her, nudges the coffee table out of the way, and settles himself on the edge of the couch cushion. He reaches for her, beckoning her to him, and when she takes his hand he guides her down to sit astride his knees.

“Comfortable?” he asks, sliding his hands onto her thighs and feeling the silky fabric slip beneath his fingers. “This isn’t quite the traditional Tantric position, but it’s as close as we get without sitting on the floor. I thought that might best be avoided.”

“I should say so,” Cornelia says, reaching for his bow tie and pulling it lose. “We might never make it up again if we end up down there.” She plucks open his collar stud, and then works her way down his shirt. Her mouth twists in concentration but her fingers work nimbly. She soon has him all undone, pulls his shirt open and slides her hands beneath it, fingers splaying out to caress his chest through his undershirt.

Leo takes a moment to appreciate the situation, this woman in his lap with her hands all over him, undressed enough that he can feel the heat of her thighs both against his knees and beneath his palms. He feels his smile twist across his face. “That’s probably not the most ominous threat, under the circumstances.”

She grins at him, half wicked and half shy, and suddenly he is wearing far too much. Tugging his shirt loose, he shrugs it off, then reaches for her again, sliding one hand around to her back and tugging her as close as he can, cupping her thigh with the other. Her arms come up to curl around his shoulders and he leans his head back to look at her - she is taller than him, sitting like this; he is surrounded by long legs and arms, enveloped in the smell of her. His entire vision is full of her.

“I _could_ live here, you know,” he tells her, leaning forward to press a kiss against her chest, right against the hollow where her prominent collarbones meet. “Live here,” he says, then kisses a sunspot a little further down, “and work here.” Down to her sternum: “sleep here. And worship, well…I’m spoiled for choice.” His mouth finds one of her nipples through the fabric, wets it with his tongue and sucks until she makes a little mewling noise in her throat, whereupon he switches to the other and does the same, keeping up the pressure until her fingernails dig into his shoulder.

“ _Leo_ ,” she hisses, and he looks up at her. Her eyes are dark and wild and her lips are bitten red. “Get this off me.”

He stretches up to kiss her softly. “Breathe,” he says, and with a little whine she drops her forehead against his, but they do, five or six times until she’s edged down from her cliff. Only then do his fingers slip beneath her skirt.

“It’s a step-in,” she tells him, “studs at the front. You’ll have to unclip me if you want to get it over my head.”

“Okay,” he notes, but he doesn’t rush in. Instead, he lets his fingers slide over her skin, watching her face as his hands explore. He loves the feel of her skin, suppleness beginning to turn paper-soft with age. He strokes velvety inner thighs with his thumbs and watches her slow-blink, kneads her rump and feels her hips roll forward, watches her bite her lip again when the motion grinds on nothing but air. His lips quirk upward as his fingers find the strip of fabric she was talking about, a narrow modesty panel that runs between her legs. With a smirk he curls his forefinger around it, tugging it taut against her and dragging it back and forth. She whines, hips wiggling, and digs her fingernails into his shoulders again.

“Alright,” he murmurs, chuckling, “alright. Let’s get this off you.” He finds the row of press-studs she mentioned, begins to pop them one by one. “I have to say, though, I am a little disappointed.”

Her brow furrows. “By _what_?” she asks, and there is some of the asperity he’d experienced earlier that day.

He grins, popping the last stud. “Living and working and sleeping and worshipping,” he says. He slides his hands beneath her rump. “I’m a little disappointed that you didn’t ask me where I plan to _eat._ ” And with that he shifts his weight, pushing up from the balls of his feet and lifting her as he stands. She makes an unexpectedly boisterous exclamation of surprise, clinging to his neck, and her legs wrap around him. He adjusts his grip to support her thighs, and only once she’s secure does she respond to his quip.

“Vulgar American,” she chides, but she’s smiling.

“Guilty, as charged,” he replies.

Taking care to avoid the coffee table, he walks her back through the doors to the bedroom, lowering her onto the bed when they reach it. After giving her a moment to untangle herself from him, he reaches for the hem of her chemise and lifts it up, waiting for her to raise her arms before tugging the garment up, and off. It flutters from his hand, dropping to the floor, and he takes a deep breath as he looks at her, needing a moment to take in the sight.

If he ever stops glorying at the sight of a naked woman before him, he hopes someone will just take him outside and shoot him.

She’s beautiful. He doesn’t care that she isn’t young, that she has a little pouch of belly or that her breasts are imperfect or that her thighs are soft-skinned and wrinkle-creased; what he sees is an idiosyncratic beauty that is as interesting and distinctive as her personality. It’s glorious, and there’s the look in her eyes, too: the look that says that she has made herself vulnerable for him. It’s an expression that begs him to see past her flaws, and he doesn’t think he has the words to articulate how misplaced that nervousness is, how gratified he is that she would share this moment with him, and how much he enjoys the sight of her.

He trails a hand over her bare shoulder, draws a finger up under her chin. “You’re lovely,” he whispers, and watches her smile.

He makes to move, wants to urge her back onto the bed and prove it to her, but she lifts a hand and stops him in his tracks. “Wait,” she says. “Why do you still get to be clothed?”

“Oh,” he breathes, and laughs. He’d almost forgotten he was.

She reaches for him, finds the single open button of his fly and tugs the rest undone, working her hands into his waistband and finding the hem of his undershirt, pushing it up until he has to take over and yank it over his head.

The trousers also need to go. It’s a little complicated, because he’s still wearing shoes, but with a wall for balance he manages to remove them, as well as his hose and garters - because no man wants to be seen by a lady while still in his socks - all while under her gaze. Next, he dutifully works his trousers down and kicks them off. He leaves his shorts on, for now, and hopes she won’t object. No doubt she can see how tented they are; he needs at least some small reminder that he wants to take his time.

She doesn’t seem to mind. By the time he’s ready, she’s moved up the bed, and when he joins her there she welcomes him with a kiss, her palm flattening against his chest as she curls a leg around him.

“Breathe with me,” she whispers, and he does, even as her heel curls into his backside and pulls him against her. He lets the back of his fingers trail up and down her arm as they lie there. She cradles him in her heat and they breathe together, and he can feel his blood singing, every single atom of him tingling with anticipation.

 _A little longer,_ he tells himself. He can hold out a little longer because he knows it will only be sweeter when he finally lets go; he can hold out a little longer because there’s still more he wants to give to her. With that in mind, he lets his hand cover hers against his chest, curls his fingers around her wrist. He doesn’t move, doesn’t stop breathing in time with her, but he lets his eyes ask the question, and when she is ready, she lets him go. He lifts her hand up, kisses her palm, then stretches her out across the bed.

Tantra, as he learned it, is all about awareness, about staying conscious of oneself at all times, being present in the moment, never losing focus. It’s a useful philosophy most of the time, he thinks, but there are definitely some moments when it can go to right to hell, and this one right now, this chance to lose himself completely in Cornelia’s body, is one of those times.

He starts at her throat, that much he’s aware of, with a deep sucking kiss that makes her squirm beneath him. Down her breastbone, he knows as well, but after that it becomes a mess of sensory input - here her velvet skin under his fingers, there a nipple teased. Her fingers end up in his mouth at one point, though that’s not something she seems to particularly care for, but when he nips at the sensitive skin inside her elbow she gasps so deeply that he can see every one of her ribs. He reads the story of the veins beneath her skin, following them like a map to discover new parts of her, and when he kisses her belly he finds that what he had thought was just a trick of the light on ageing skin is in fact rather fresh scarring that looks remarkably like it was left by buckshot.

“ _Don’t ask,_ ” she whispers, so he doesn’t, but it does reframe the older, puckered scar on her bicep into a question that he will probably never know the answer to. There are other things - _a rather unusual trip_ among them - that he thinks he could piece together if he had the time, but right at this moment he is far more interested in the way she whimpers when he kisses the mole on her hip.

“I could live there,” he whispers, and shifts down, settling himself between her legs and spreading them wide. “Work here.” He kisses the inside of her knee. “Worship here…” His mouth descends on the inside of her thigh, works its way up toward the apex. He can feel her trembling, lifts his head. “Or even here,” he adds, grinning at her, switching to the other thigh and sucking at the tender skin until her hips jerk and she growls at him. “And,” he says, lifting his head once more, “I could…”

“Don’t!” she cries, though it comes out as more of a whimper that quickly dissolves into laughter. “Don’t say it, you pillock, just— _Ohh!_ ”

He kisses her, and she loses the end of her sentence. She loses words completely, though she’s rather more vocal while his mouth is on her than she’s been at any point this evening. Every breath comes out of her as a warble or a strangled cry, and he can’t help but smile against her, because this is what he loves about this act, the unguarded display of pleasure it rouses. He increases the pace and her hips quiver; she pushes herself against him in a way that makes his own hips jerk involuntarily, grinding into the bedcovers.

Once she realizes she can move, she does, giving way to her pleasure completely, writhing and arching. He curls an arm around her thigh to ground her, and he’s glad he does, because in the next moment her other leg is over his shoulder, the pad of her foot against his back and her heel twitching. He lays his hand across her belly, holds her steady while he focuses his attention, and soon she is trembling, then shaking, then breaking against him with a high, continuous wail.

She is quiet, after, chest heaving. He stays where he is for a time, holding her belly, gently kissing her thighs, just letting her recover. She allows it for a while, but eventually she makes a noise and reaches for him, and he moves back up to join her.

She rolls to face him and they breathe together, during which time he notices that her hair is a mess - a wild and glorious one, to be certain, but the job he began while kissing her has been thoroughly completed by her thrashing, and the twist she had been wearing at the start of the evening is now just a tangle resting on her shoulder. Silently, he reaches for it, sliding out the loose pin he can see and finding a few others, freeing them and unraveling the knot into a waterfall of fine blonde, which is liberally shot through with grey.

“I've only done that once before,” she confesses quietly as he runs his fingers through her hair, enjoying the texture of it and smoothing out the tangles. “I never knew it could feel so good.”

She doesn’t elaborate - doesn’t explain whether her husband hadn’t done it because she hadn’t liked it, or because he hadn’t - and he doesn’t ask. Crass American he might be, but he does know that there are some things better left alone, and whether he is better at lovemaking than a woman’s dead husband is one such topic.

“It’s one of my favorite things to do,” is what he says. “I don’t know if you could hear the noises you were making, but it was quite something.” He grins, then is prompted to clarify: “You do mean the act, don’t you, and not the climax?”

“Yes,” she says, then smiles herself. “Though I thought you said that the aim of Tantra was to delay that until the last possible moment?”

“Yeah, well.” He slides his fingers over her shoulder. “Since it’s been so long for you, I thought I could afford to be generous.”

Her smile turns long. “You’ve been waiting a while now too, though, haven’t you?”

He starts to shrug, opens his mouth to be dismissive, but before he can complete either action, her hand slides around the back of his neck and pulls him in for a kiss, long and deep. “Don’t say it’s nothing,” she whispers against his mouth. “It means a great deal to me.” Her hand slides down to his chest again.

Her exploration of him isn’t playful, but he wouldn’t call it reverent, either. Tender, that’s the word he would use. She seems full of nervous energy as her hand explores him, stroking his chest and shoulder and arm, feeling out the shape of him. Perhaps it's their age, or the fact that she’s unfamiliar with his body, or even just that she’s out of practice, but like with the kissing, it takes her a little while to be comfortable taking charge. But he breathes with her, matches her even though her attention is elsewhere, and she seems to feel it, the synchronicity of their energy. Her confidence grows. Her hand glides over his abdomen, fingertips brushing the waistband of his shorts, and then she rakes her nails up his side and he gasps.

She smiles at him. “On your back, I think.”

He obeys.

She straddles him, settling herself across his hipbones like one might sit in a saddle - a comparison that is particularly apt, he thinks, when she leans back, and he feels his erection press into the ridge of her backside. She’s not immediately interested in that, though. Instead, she focuses her attention once again on his chest - now that she’s got both hands free, she seems keen to use them, mapping him out so thoroughly that it seems she’s trying to commit him to memory. When her fingers graze his nipples, he murmurs approval, and that’s all the encouragement she needs to give him more. She leans forward, her hair falling with her, and as she kisses her way across his chest - stopping to pay attention to his nipples, and anywhere else that interests her - it’s a silky trail that follows in her wake. Although he’s enjoying himself, his energy is restless. He can’t stay still for long, and he wants to see her face, so he reaches out and slides his fingers through that hair, dragging it all to one side so he can still feel the tail, but can see her eyes as well.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells her, and his voice is huskier than before, full of the need that’s been growing in him all night. He slips his hand between them to toy with her nipple. “And you feel so good.”

Smiling at him, she lays her cheek on his chest for a moment, then shifts herself backwards, covering him in kisses from his breastbone down to his bellybutton. She places a single one below it - he feels a little swirl of her breath in that sensitive place - and sits up. She studies his face for a moment, then looks at the tent in his drawers, and then she is laying one of those long-fingered hands over the bulge and squeezing him lightly.

“ _Jesus!_ ” he hisses, unprepared for the strength of his response, jerking up against her hand with such force that his whole body shakes. He suddenly realizes the source of all that restless energy - he’s been ignoring his need for so long that it was almost a background ache, but now that she’s touching him he just wants to crawl inside her and move until he’s blind.

“Breathe,” she tells him, and he nods, clinging to it like a lifeline, watching the rise and fall of her chest and forcing his own into compliance. It takes ten or twelve cycles before his blood simmers down, but when she moves her hand again, he doesn’t feel primed to explode.

“Get them off me,” he whispers. Begs. “Please.”

She nods, unfastens his buttons, then hooks her fingers into his waistband and eases the shorts down over his erection. He lifts his hips to help her pull them off, and, as soon as he’s free, sits up, pushing himself back until he’s leaning against the pillows. “Come up here,” he says.

For the second time that night she settles in across his thighs, only now there is one obvious, throbbing difference. She takes a long, appraising look at him as she curls her arms around his neck (he couldn’t resist the opportunity to be wrapped up in her again), then lifts her gaze and quirks an eyebrow.

“Well,” she says, “that is gratifying.”

“All for you,” he replies, lifting his knees up to support her backside, “thanks to the magic of Tantra.”

“A most diverting field of study; you were right.”

He smirks. “I usually am.”

“Well,” she says, and lets her right arm fall away from his shoulder, insinuating her hand between them, “I suppose a successful businessman does need to be...” She curls her hand around him, “... _cocky_.”

Leo has a strange reaction, given that his body tries to inhale and laugh at the same time. For an instant, he freezes entirely, then the mix of signals resolve themselves into some sort of order, and his laughter stutters out around a series of rapid breaths.

When he can finally speak again, he tries to recover his dignity, though he’s not sure how possible that is when she’s got her hand wrapped around his stiff. “Mrs. Cavendish,” he admonishes, “are you being _vulgar?_ ”

“Not a bit of it,” she replies, as she begins to stroke him, slowly but with a good, firm fist. “And I’ll thank you not to make such spurious accusations. A man in your position, _honestly_.”

He feels his lips twitching, but he tries to keep a straight face as he replies: “My apologies, ma’am.”

She smiles at him, and it’s full wicked, now. All traces of her earlier shyness are gone as she stares at him, works him. He pushes into her hand, head spinning. He wants to reach for her, but he can’t feel his fingers.

“I can’t,” he breathes, as she twists her fist, “can’t take too much of this, Cornelia.”

“Right to the edge,” she says, “isn’t that the mantra?” She keeps it up, the same grip and the same agonizing slowness. Over and over again until there are stars swimming in front of his eyes, but she’s right, she’s right, without more friction he probably won’t, probably…

“ _Breathe with me, Leo_.”

Her voice comes to him as if from far away, and it takes him several moments to realize that she’s stopped, that she’s holding him now in a grip of two fingers, just shy of too tight, right where she needs to, to bring him back from the edge. After a few more moments, she lets go, removes her hand completely, and she watches his face as she models the breathing, waiting for him to come back to her.

When he has, she lets it lapse. “Did you see nirvana?” she asks.

His smile feels lopsided on his face. “Maybe a glimpse,” he replies. “I didn’t know you knew how to do _that_.”

She pierces him with a stare. “I am a learned woman, you know. I may not have taken a lover in some time, but that doesn’t mean I’m completely ignorant to the ways of the world.” There is some shifting, though, an evasiveness to her expression that suggests that he may not be getting the whole story there, but he thinks he’ll let that one slide.

Slide. Now that he can move his hands again, he does, curling them around her and trailing his fingers down her spine, over the curve of her buttocks and under to feel out her wet. And it _is_ wet. She purrs as he touches her, pushes back against his hand, and he can feel her slick against his palm.

“The magic of Tantra,” she murmurs, smiling. “I haven’t felt like this in years.”

“Very gratifying,” he replies. It’s exactly what he’s been aiming for, seeing as he knows it’s not a given, not at her age.

“Are you all right now?” she asks him. “Not going to explode on me?”

“No,” he says, then “yes. I mean, no, I’m not going to explode, and yes, I’m alright.”

“Good.” She chuckles, then takes hold of him again, gripping his shoulder with her other hand as she lifts her hips, shifts, then sinks, taking him inside her with a sigh and a flutter of the eyelashes.

 _Breathe,_ he thinks, but doesn’t need to say, because he finds they’re doing it anyway, her hand coming up to rest against his chest again as his settle on her hips, and they adjust to each other. She is warm and snug and glorious, and whatever he said, he needs this, needs to just _be_ for a few moments, because now that he’s here he wants to stay forever.

She has other ideas, tightens around him, and he marvels at how quickly a mind can change, because as soon as she moves it’s like a switch is flipped, and he wants all of her, right now. He presses his heels into the bedcovers and pushes up into her, and then they’re moving, finding a rhythm.

“So good,” he murmurs, “you feel so good.”

Her hips roll, he pushes back, they rock the bed frame along with each other. She makes sure she has both hands secured firmly around his neck; his don’t know where to hold. They roam restlessly up and down her back, over her ass, squeezing her cheeks as she grinds on him and holding her there while he shakes.

She grips his shoulder, buries her face against his neck, mouthing inarticulately at his skin. He listens to the sound of them, the slick slap of her skin against his. Her head falls back again, hair swaying, her mouth open in silent throes. He wants to hear her, pulls one hand around to grip her breast, crushing her nipple in his palm. She cries out, and he can feel his fire growing too, his head spinning up and away. His blood is singing, begging for release, and while he still has the conscious mind to do it he drops his hand between them, finds her clitoris with his thumb and fixes it there, half moving and half just letting her push herself against it.

He’s burning now, good and bright, feeding off her heat and giving his own back, feeling it double, triple, become white hot fire with no smoke at all. He bites the insides of his cheeks, desperate to hold on, to hold out for her. His eyes roll back in his head as she clutches him tight in her glorious quim, squeezes him, rocks him.

Then she’s there, cresting, quaking around him and wailing as she breaks, and he can’t last another second. He grips her hard, blinded white, then just pushes and pushes and pushes until he’s spent.

The world returns slowly. He can feel his blood, and hers - her heart must be pounding as hard as his, because he can feel it from within her. Sound, then - their breathing, labored but synchronized for all that, as they cool down together. Then sight and a general awareness of his surroundings returns - Cornelia slumped against him, hanging from her arms around his neck, pink of cheek and throat. That’s a marvel too, her exhausted repose - it’s the posture of someone who has allowed herself to be in her body completely and taken all it could give, and he feels no small amount of pleasure at having helped her get there.

She doesn’t look very comfortable, though. He strokes her back to bring her to life. “Is the lady of the house in?” he asks, and she lifts her head, blinking slowly.

“Mm, barely,” she answers, offering him a tired but satisfied smile.

He touches her shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get you comfortable.”

She nods, and they slip apart, untangling themselves so they can shimmy down into the pillows. As they settle, he lifts his arm, and she snuggles in to rest her head on his shoulder. Her hair falls over him, and he finds himself reaching up to toy with it idly as he recovers the rest of his faculties. She traces lazy circles on his chest as she does the same, and at length breathes a gusty sigh that tickles all the hairs on his chest.

“Penny for them?” he asks.

“Oh,” she murmurs, sounding wistful, “I was just thinking that I have missed this. More than I’ve missed sex, really, I’ve missed a companion, being able to just curl up with someone.”

Leo knows what to do with tartness; he knows what to do with flirtation. He even knows what to do with tears, sometimes, but he’s not quite sure how to respond to quiet honesty. She doesn’t seem to be seeking sympathy, nor does this seem like the moment to try and make her laugh. He smiles. Even now, she’s keeping him on his toes.

“Well,” he says, responding the only way he can, in the end - offering her the only thing he has: “you can stay curled up with me for as long as you like.”

He feels her cheek move as she smiles. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could just stop time?” she asks. “Just for a day or two. No worrying families, no judgmental concierges, no evil in the world happening while we dithered about.”

“Evil in the world?” he asks, perplexed by its inclusion on her list.

Her hand stills on his chest, and in the silence he can hear her breath quicken before she manages to control it. “There’s a lot of it,” she tries, but it’s a lame response.

He doesn’t buy it, and indeed, now that she’s prompted him, he begins to piece together some of the things he’s learned about her - the life of travel, the ‘unusual trip’, the gunshot scars, her love of drink; even the odd tenor to her voice at supper when they had discussed the strange violence in Goose Lake. He’s not entirely sure what shape these things make, because what would _that_ have to do with there being too much evil in the world? Maybe the people who did these things thought that the others were evil? Yes, he supposes _that_ fits.

“Cornelia,” he ventures, “are you a liquor baron?”

There is a moment of absolute silence between them, and then she bursts out laughing, shaking so hard he feels himself jiggle right down to his toes. When she’s recovered, she pushes herself up and twists to look at him, a wide smile on her face. “No,” she says, “but thank you for being the second person since I arrived here who thinks me formidable enough for the task.”

“Well,” he says, “the way you handled me earlier, I think you’d be fierce enough for anything.” He does feel slightly put out from being wrong, though, and it must show on his face, because in the next moment she leans up and kisses him soundly, as if trying to wipe the expression from his lips.

It works, but he’s still puzzled, staring at her quizzically afterward, and she seems to decide to take pity on him. “I’m an occult investigator, but it’s just a hobby.”

“Really?” he asks. Could this woman be _more_ fascinating? “Have you ever found anything?”

She smiles, resting her hand on his chest and her chin on her hand. “Not much. But I have been to a lot of séances, and on a lot of ghost hunts, and I may have poked my head into places I shouldn’t, from time to time. I’ve watched people try to perform alchemy, and participated in forest rites. I’ve met shamans and visited temples, and I think it’s fascinating what people believe - how many similarities there are in very different places. I do believe there are forces greater than we understand in the world, and they’re not all good ones.”

He twirls her hair around his finger, traces the shell of her ear. “You really are remarkable, you know. I do wonder how long I could spend, unraveling you.”

“Well,” she says, “if we ever end up on the same continent again, I’d be glad to let you pull me apart some more.” She leans up, kisses him again, sweet and long, and this time it feels like she’s trying to memorize him. He might be doing the same with her.

“Maybe I’ll look into the mystical uses of silver,” he says, when they’re done, “see who might like to buy my wares in far-flung countries. Maybe I could have an international empire.”

She smiles. “I’d like to see that. Do yourself a favour, though: if a person without enough teeth ever offers you anything that smells of lemons, don’t bother. It’ll give you terrible stomach cramps.”


End file.
